


Zodiac

by venomPunk



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Zodiac, everything I could think of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:48:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 5,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27329818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/venomPunk/pseuds/venomPunk
Summary: Twelve zodiac signs in short johnlock stories.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 14
Kudos: 37





	1. Libra

It's half past two in the morning and Sherlock is falling apart. His mind crumbles to tiny pieces and he just has to wait for it to become a ruin. Gray and empty. It's cloudy in his head, it's about to endless drizzle, it's like moor. Desolate and bleak. He is bored.

He sits in his leather armchair - a fad of design, and walks through the corners of his Mind Palace. Although exceptional, his mind is filled with the same things at such moments as millions of other minds around the world. He thinks of the bad things that have happened. He thinks of injustices. He thinks of shame. He thinks of revenge. His soul is slowly filling with poison and black smoke. The arrow of the scales deflected.

_Do you remember how you slowly dropped out of physical education, second year, all those mediocre and stupid kids laughed at you? Where are they now? Could you make their worthless life more uncomfortable?_

_Your essay of the Elizabethan era warfare was brilliant. The professor, on the other hand, is an annoying spinster without a bit of foresight. That in itself is a sufficient punishment - let's hope she lives to be at least a hundred._

Tousands of small pokes and malice, crooked looks, vile remarks from a human substrate that is just as smelly and unpleasant, but thanks to which this city, which he loves so much, thrives and grows. How else to repay them than with the same coin? _Fool, psychopath, go fuck yourself, weirdo, crank, you have to - you shouldn´t ..._

He throws logs to the flame of rotting hatred and knows what could distract him. Nice little intimate murder. He liked that in the kills - that is, on the solved ones - they were always a punishment for two. The unsolved murder seemed incomplete to him, insulted his intellect, and he couldn't stand it.

The front door slammed shut.The steps on the stairs are tired, slow. "Oh - you don't sleep. Yeah ... not surprised. ”

Sherlock looks at his roommate, the first rays of sunlight crossing dark clouds in his mind.

John - too tired, three evenings of overtime - beard (two days) - hair (shower at work, water chlorinated, dried his skin like a desert wind, cheap shampoo) - shirt (last clean, because he hates this one) - eyes - lips - hands. ..

_John._

Sherlock takes three quick steps. His mind is clear and free again. No groundwater dirt and nasty nooks. No _people_. No _world_.

He takes John's face in his hands. Resting his forehead on John´s. He takes a deep breath and feels the wrinkles on John's forehead smooth out, the tension draining from his neck. John is too tired to escape Sherlock.

He doesn't waste time. He touches John's lips, wipes, examines ... then penetrates in them with his tongue and it´s rewarded with an inaudible sigh. John's bag falls to the ground with a thud.

The scales are balancing. The universe is in order again.


	2. Capricorn

"What's this supposed to be?"  
  
"It's just a joke. For your birthday."  
  
"Unless it's evidence of at least a triple murder, I'm not interested in any story behind it. "  
  
John raised an eyebrow and, with a mischievous smile, looked at a small booklet that looked like it had been made on a home printer.  
  
" _A man born under the sign of Capricorn is practical, and the Earth that rules over him keeps his thinking within strictly logical limits,"_ he read _._ "Strange, it doesn't say anything about the Capricorns being ungrateful bastards," John added with an edge of dissatisfaction _._ _  
_  
Sherlock peered out of the kitchen, where it was beginning to smell of dangerous lye.  
  
"You gave me a goat figurine, John. You probably bought it at that esoteric shop in Soho last week. "  
  
"It proves that I am like a Cancer - kind, caring and observant," John flipped through the page.  
  
"No, it means you're a fool who believes in the constructs of some hippie cranks."  
  
Sherlock put on his goggles again and disappeared into the kitchen.  
  
John chuckled to himself and continued flipping through the esoteric samizdat. Indeed, they were in Soho because of the case last week. Sherlock burst into the shop full of talismans, incense sticks, and Indian blankets, with the intention of wondering if a murder weapon might have come from here — a rather kitsch-decorated letter opener. As he rummaged through the rubbish, John spoke to the owner, an elderly darker-skinned woman with piercing green eyes. That's exactly how he always imagined a gypsy who could tell him the future, for example, from tea leaves. Not that he believed it.  
  
"Your boyfriend is very silent," she said to the tall figure who was looking at the set of hookahs.  
  
"Yeah, you have no idea…" John nodded, staring at Sherlock's back. Then something occurred to him.  
  
"You know, it's his birthday in a few days and-"  
  
"I thought so," gypsy lifted the corner of her lips.  
  
"..That I'm not at all surprised," John replied, but she was already behind the beaded curtain. When she returned, she was carrying a ten-inch-tall figure of a horned animal. It could be a pretty imitation of an antique if it didn't have an absolutely contemporary statement embossed on it below:  
  
 _Stubborn as fuck_  
  
"You are absolutely right. How much?"  
  
For a pound, he took a ceramic capricorn and a booklet with a description of the zodiac signs. When the gypsy woman packed it for him, she got her reputation and said in a haunting evangelical voice:  
"You'll find the right gift for your friend in the book."  
  
John flipped through it as the hiss of acids and the clink of glass flasks echoed behind him. Suddenly a small ticket fell out - it was a receipt for the sale, but something was written on the back by hand.

 _Kiss him._  
  
A chill ran down John's spine like a wand for a xylophone. There was no way she could write it there, he saw her inserting the receipt into a booklet.  
  
However, strange things had happened to him for some time, so he just shrugged and headed for the kitchen.  
  
Who is he to resist destiny?


	3. Virgo

Irene sat comfortably in the wide first-class seat and smoothed her expensive Dior skirt. She looked much better in it than the black hijab. It was their last flight - from Cairo straight to London, where they were to say goodbye.  
  
"What was it meant?"  
  
"What about Mr. Holmes?"  
  
"Those nicknames - I quite understand Mycroft, I've come up with countless invectives for him myself, but mine? "  
  
Irene raised one perfectly shaped eyebrow as well as a corner of her red-painted lips.  
  
"I've had many partners before, I'm not…," Sherlock said.  
  
"Oh, your literal understanding of the world will kill you one day."  
  
She leaned back comfortably and closed her eyes. Sherlock opened his mouth to object, but then closed it again. The plane took off.  
  
  
  
…  
  
  
  
It took him a few months to actually see. It started inconspicuously, it happened against the background of everyday life, obscure cases and boring days. However, he felt that Irene had tuned something in his head to the right frequency, and now all that remained was to pick up the right signal. Of course he was there. He was there all that time… Sugar in tea. Pulling out stitches. Blog. Silence as he waited for the storm. A storm when he didn't expect anyone to stand up for him. Patience. Stability. Strength.

  
One evening, John looks up from the monitor and sees Sherlock staring at him from his desk. Their gazes collide.  
"Of course," Sherlock whispered in a sudden realization.

" What?"

" You."  
  
He gets up and goes to his chair. John looks at him, and now in his gaze he can recognize the needy: _Don't come here, Christ, don't come here, or I won't hold on._  
  
Sherlock smiles like a cannibal in a mass car accident.  
  
…  
  
Later that night, when John falls asleep exhausted, Sherlock licks a salty taste from his lips. His breath calms, his heart stops racing, and then he hears a muffled female sigh. He reaches into the pocket of a jacket thrown near the bed. This is the first news in months.  
  
"Very well, Mr. Holmes, congratulations ;)"  
  
  
His quiet laugh wakes John. The unconvincing ´no´ disappears in the rustle of the blankets.


	4. Sagittarius

_The first shot was fired when I wanted to protect you._ _  
  
I didn't even really know what I was doing. I acted instinctively, hoping that with a drop of luck I could avoid prison. It was just an impulse from my subconscious, the same as when an animal freezes in the middle of the road and a rush of a chemical cocktail makes it feel no pain on hit. Christ, I killed for you, and I didn't even know you very well, you bastard. If I knew then where it would lead…  
  
The second shot was fired when you wanted to protect the woman I met while you were away. I would never expect such a selfless gesture from you, my mischievous self even gave me the idea that you just wanted to pay off a debt that you could not stand with a man who left you because of someone else. Something inside me whispered to me that it was not so. Maybe it was the remnants of my idealism. I don´t know.  
  
The third shot hurt the most, and if I still had any ideals, they died there, on the floor of the aquarium.  
As the saying goes, every hour of our lives hurts. But the last one kills. Or something like that.  
  
The fourth shot - the one that was never fired, opened my eyes.  
  
As one wise man once remarked –It´s not okay... but it is what it is._ _Time is all I have now._   
  
_I'll wait for a shot to open your eyes too._


	5. Leo

“Are you proud of yourself?" John shouted toward the kitchen as he climbed out of the shower, still pissed off. He wrapped a towel around his hips, wiped the misted mirror, and looked into it.  
It wasn't so bad - when he washed all the blood, only a few shallow scars and one bruise appeared on his face. But even those could be avoided. That'll be bullshit in the hospital again…  
  
His roommate appeared in the bathroom doorway. His face was also ornated with a few abrasions, as well as that unbearably god-like expression. His hair was tousled and his expensive shirt was torn in two places on the front.  
  
"No, I'm not proud of myself. My coat is destroyed. "  
  
"Well, that beast enclosure wasn't my idea."  
  
"But the zoo does."  
  
"I thought we'd ask the caregiver, how the hell I was supposed to know what silly idea would be born in your crazy head again?"  
  
John could feel the steam rising from him. He had showered with really hot water, and now he seemed like a wrathful cartoon character. In addition to the smell of soap, he could smell the scent that still spread from Sherlock — wet fur, blood, and raw meat. Sweat.  
  
The detective bit his lower lip and lifted his chin as always when he felt he was right, but he didn't want to argue anymore. He closed his eyes and exhaled.  
  
"I'm sorry."  
  
John stared at him. Then he shook his head and turned back to the sink.  
  
"Forget it."  
  
He took a bottle of disinfectant and a piece of cotton wool from the cabinet behind the mirror. The stinging smell of alcohol irritated his nostrils. Sherlock was still standing in the doorway. The steam that filled the bathroom stuck a torn shirt to his chest. John looked at him.  
" Anything else?"  
  
There was something in his gaze that he had seen once before. In that lions enclosure.  
  
"Sherlock?" he asked in a low voice.  
  
His roommate detached from the door frame and walked over to him.  
  
"No, Sherlock, I'm really not in the mood for this right now."  
  
Sherlock was already behind him, running his nose over his neck. John straightened involuntarily and looked in the mirror, which was slowly fogging up again. It was easy to imagine that the creature behind him was not human… He heard a growl with his mental hearing, like a distant storm. Despite the heat in the bathroom, goosebumps ran on his arms, forearms, and ribs.  
  
He felt the inquisitive tip of his tongue pass through the fine hairs on the back of his neck. He swallowed empty. This was not fair… Sherlock knew how much he loved excitement, the nearness of death. And instead of arguing with him, she can tell him the truth differently. _Egocentric bas…_ thoughts suddenly got stuck in a deadlock.  
  
The hands found the edge of the towel that covered John's hips and released it. John winced as his rising cock touched the cold surface of the cabinet under the sink.  
  
When the engine of John's mind started up again, it sent his thoughts along a completely different track. Everything he longed for now was brutal, animalistic and violent. As one of Sherlock's palms crossed his temple, ear, and down his neck, he saw a reflection of one bright blue eye behind him in the misty mirror. The pupil was dilated, so that it looked like a window into the bottomless abyss of the human mind. Where we all know that we are basically just animals.  
  
John closed his eyes and leaned against Sherlock's shoulder as he felt one finger in the sensitive spot behind his testicles. _It will not take long._  
  
The torn shirt fell to the ground, and the inquisitive hands returned to John's body. One touched his cock and the other ran into his hair. John exhaled, half surprised, half disapproving, but obediently turning his head back. He felt the Sherlock's half-overgrown stubble on his jaw, but he didn't dare look, preferring to be carried away by his touch.  
  
It didn't really take long, and the muscles in John's neck tensed as he came. Right after that, his knees shook.  
"Fuck…" he breathed as Sherlock finally let go of his hair.  
He felt his friend swallow empty.

  
- _Oh, so that's it_ , the first thought flashed through John's dazed mind. He wanted to start regretting that he had succumbed so easily. However, he also learned a little about deduction.  
  
Sherlock picked up his shirt and left the bathroom.  
  
"So now that you've drained your excess energy, I expect you not to keep arguing about my methods of investigation," he said in his superior tone and disappeared down the hall.  
  
 _Oh yeah._ _Of course._  
  
John smiled, picked up a towel, tossed it in the laundry basket, and went naked to his friend.  
  
He's on the hunt now.


	6. Aquarius

Sherlock drowned in this world.  
  
He could not cope with his _deep waters_ , an influx of emotions that he had learned as a child to suppress and lock in like dangerous animals. The last case was too much for him and he found himself here. In the cell inherited from his dead sister. He didn't need as much security as she did, but Mycroft thought _what if_.  
  
He just lay there most of the time. Clouds raced over his prison, the sun and moon rose, taking turns in a never-ending dance, and he didn't notice any of it. He heard only a wild surf - down on the rocks and inside. Otherwise there was silence.

The violin remained in the corner, forgotten.  
  
Sometimes people came to see him. They fed him because Mycroft had ordered them to.  
They cut his hair and nails, shaved him because Mycroft had told them to.  
They read books to him before sleep because Mycroft didn't forbid them to do so.  
  
Sometimes his parents showed up because Mycroft couldn't hide him from them.  
Tears welled up in her mother's eyes within a few minutes, and it was over. Peace and quiet again.  
  
Mycroft never visited him.  
  
One day a man he didn't know showed up. He was short, but he held himself upright, like a soldier. There was something familiar about him, but he couldn't figure out what it was supposed to be.  
He came up to the glass wall and looked at Sherlock sitting across from him. He didn't show any emotion, just nodded for him to come closer. Sherlock went.  
  
"Please don't be dead," the man said.  
"-You did it once, remember? I promise I won't get angry again. ”He placed his palm on the glass as if waiting for something. Despite his sadness, he smiled, raised one corner of his mouth, and searched the Sherlock's eyes.  
Apparently there was nothing, so he just shook his head, wiped his eyes, turned, and walked out the door.  
  
He never showed up again.  
  
...

  
  
Millions of miles away, possibilities, dreams, and decisions, in a different stream of time, Sherlock rolled restlessly in his sleep.  
"Bad dream?" John asked, half asleep himself, wrapping his arm around his chest.  
" Yeah. Just a bad dream, " Sherlock sighed.  
  


In this world, water was his friend.


	7. Cancer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is a sequel to ´Leo´

No, John was not so adept at deductions, he lacked an extensive conception of the world, millions of details stacked to form a coherent image, seen as by the eye of a bee. But what he did better, was to know his emotions. In his own at times he groped, as each of us, but reading other people's emotions - it was easy for him. And when it came to Sherlock - incredibly easy.

He left a towel on the bathroom floor and followed him into the living room. He already had a clue, and all he had to do was follow the uncertain path behind the animal that had just seized him. Or at least it was very cleverly pretending.

Sherlock turned in surprise, half-naked still, his torn shirt in his hand. He tried to conjure one of his smug expressions on the face in the style _You haven't had enough yet?_ but only a pathetic parody came out of it. When he was excited, John could see through him more easily. He came up to him, the air chilling him on the bare skin warmed by the shower, but he wasn't going to distract himself.

"I think I've learned something in the field of deductions," he said in a low voice, shamelessly reaching into the pocket of Sherlock´s pants.

Sherlock held his breath for a second, but John didn't miss it either. He smiled as he exhaled and pulled out a small, familiar bottle. "You wanted to fuck me, didn't you, you bastard?"

Sherlock continued to stare blankly at him. _Defensive reaction. Do nothing and the predator will not notice you._ "But you didn't," John looks down at his lips and reached out at the bulge in his pants. Another swallow, not unlike the one that had just penetrated John's dazed post-orgasmic mind. "…because?" Sherlock swallows again and bites his lip. _Aaand - you're caught._

John is not an aggressive hunter. He does not drive his prey for miles until it finally gets tired. John can wait. He can wait long hours, even years, in one particular case. During that time, he built a truly perfect system of traps.

As expected, Sherlock will not be able to control himself. "Because it was you. You were upset, I wanted to calm you down. I know what works for you. " Again- hetried that arrogant tone. _And fortunately, I know what works for you -_ John chuckles.

"No - you wanted much more, but my desire was more important to you."

A faint blush crept up on the high cheekbones and began to cover the back of his neck. _I have you._

John reached for his belt and smiled as he felt Sherlock jerk slightly. 

_Hunter-my-ass. You're a lot more fun when you're prey._

It was a mischievous idea, so he preferred to keep it to himself. Unlike Sherlock, he didn't like hurting people. This did not mean, however, that his mind was always on the holy paths of innocence. Exactly opposite.

He unbuttoned Sherlock's pants and slowly led him to the sofa until the detective fell on it. He undressed him and let his instincts guide him. He let his excitement sound only like tones in the background, but a real symphony, which took place on the couch below him - and also above him, behind him and finally in him.

When the beautiful deep tone finally sounded, uncontrolled, free of any inhibitions and thoughts, accompanied by tremors and an almost painful grip on the palms and long fingers on his hips, John smiled within again, but revealed none of his tactics. He didn't need to brag, to show his perfection. The best evidence now breathed contentedly beside him. Instead, he whispered simply : "I love you."

And the hunt was over.


	8. Taurus

"He´s cute."

"What did you say?"

"I said he's cute. Not much at first glance, but when he comes back from the hospital, take a look at his hands. He'll be famous in bed."

"You're insane, you know that?"

"Am I ? You're the one talking to a bull's head on the wall."

"You're a bison... you used to be. Just for your information."

Sherlock turns and walks to the kitchen. The things of his new roommate are there. He inadvertently touches the mug with the sign of his military unit, imagining if he has such a tattoo somewhere on his body ... no, Dr. Watson is not that type of guy.  
Dr. Watson is the type who brought tea towels because they were missing from the kitchen, bought a full bag of detergents, because under the sink it looked like he was about to develop a new species, he's just the type who can't ignore hunger and fills the fridge with food instead of samples ...

Sherlock returns to the living room.

"What if he's really unable to ignore other ... _needs_?"

"Yeah, then you'll finally enjoy it. I wonder how high you can pull your genteel baritone until you ..."

  
When John returns from work later that evening, he finds the unusual decoration on the wall ornated with old headphones.

"Did he hear something he shouldn´t have heard?" he says to his roommate as he takes off his jacket.

"Not yet," Sherlock replied, not even looking away from his computer.

John smiles and shakes his head.  
In recent days, he has the strange impression that the bull's skull is smiling at him.


	9. Gemini

"We're so different," John sighed between two kisses after Sherlock threw him into his bed.  
He almost gave up all attempts at defense because he could no longer.  
Not after months, after years of self-control, reasons _why not_ , lip biting and cold showers.  
  
Sherlock said nothing and found his way to John's carotid artery, drinking hungrily from the heat that was spreading from it. He found the bottom hem of his knitted sweater, took it off, and reached for the buttons on his shirt.  
John ran his hand through his curly hair, intoxicating to smell its structure, its scent.  
"You're married to your job, and I-" He closed his eyes hard as he felt Sherlock's lips on his chest.  
"-I'm an bachelor Watson," he finished with difficulty.  
  
The detective slowly slid his mouth down John's skin toward the belt, which he unbuckled. John kept his hand in his hair even after Sherlock took all his words with his dexterous tongue.  
He wished to continue oppose him, to present all arguments against what was happening to him right now, because there were _so many..._  
  
John was an ordinary guy who happened to survive the war and now can't be without it. Sherlock was an above-average intelligent bastard who invented his own profession.  
John was a doctor with mental health problems. Sherlock was an unbearably arrogant savior of the world.  
John was a heterosexual who liked girls with bigger butts. Sherlock was obviously gay, who knew what he was doing in the bed.  
  
When John heard the click of the cap of the plastic bottle, he swallowed and the last wave of sane resistance rose in him.  
"Sherlock, no. Please, I couldn't just live next to you, after that…"  
  
"Shh, John," he whispered in the most seductive james-bond voice since Sean Connery.  
"We're the same," the snake hissed as he penetrated him with his fingers. "We're smart - I'm a consulting detective and you're a military doctor. We're strong - we survived Moriarty. And we are addicted. You to adrenaline and me, unfortunately to drugs and to you. We're the same- "he repeated, judging that John was ready.  
  
"We are - _one_ ," he said with unbearable tenderness as he penetrated John and the doctor's loud sigh was the sound of the fall of the last wall still separating them.


	10. Pisces

It was like a church from another world.  
  
Domes filled with water, exotic fish instead of birds of God, sharks instead of angels. The blue darkness of hectoliters above our heads, the illusion of depth where even God cannot see.  
If that shot didn't hit the target, it could all end there. Pain, love, hope, thoughts, dreams - and there would be nothing left but the rumble of water-filled tunnels - forever.  
But it _did._ Hit . And we stayed here.  
  
I often thought about their relationship in those days. I watched it from the beginning, you know?  
First as something in my own private aquarium. Two specimens that came to me by accident, along with a warning that neither of them could stand anyone next to each other. It was an _experiment_.  
  
And I must say that he was quite successful. So successful that it completely engulfed me. I was fascinated by the dance they circled around each other, the chemistry that was unmissable.  
At times I forgot about the real world around me, I even found myself wanting to believe that something like this could last between two beings. I wanted to believe that they were attracted by something other than a hormonal cocktail. Was I insane? Maybe. It would be a relief for me to discard all my previous experiences with the human species, my entire storehouse of disappointment. And then calmly let that naivety kill me.  
  
But I can't afford that. Someone has to look after them.  
Everyone dies. All hearts are broken - I did not drop that belief.  
  
But the truth is, I envy them.


	11. Aries

John slammed the door and ran down the stair, trying to avoid Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock drove him insane again, and he wasn't in the mood for questions. He stopped on the last step. At the last moment, before his decision to get out to the pub, his judgment was tinged.

He had a kind of suspicion.

Sherlock kept annoying him down with attention to the smallest detail, and he was beginning to think he was doing it on purpose, that he had everything recalculated perfectly. _If so, why?_ Why would anyone let the milk spoil on the sideboard? Why would anyone obsessively maintain a mess in the living room? _Provocation._ With each layer of dust, with each additional idiotic question to the world today, John's safety fuse shortened. He was beginning to suspect that it wasn't because the detective was bored. Suddenly he decided on the latter option and smiled to himself.

_Like a child._

He ran back up the stairs and opened the door he had slammed so vehemently. Sherlock turned with a piece of music in his hand, his blue robe swirled, raising an eyebrow in surprise. He wanted to object, but John was suddenly there. For a second — for a brief moment — he felt as if he had seen victory in his icy blue eyes, before being replaced by knowledge of John's intentions.

John didn't hesitate. He ripped Sherlock´s home clothes off his bony shoulders and the sheet music fell at their feet. "What are you doing-" he managed to exhale, but John wasn't fooled. He slid his roommate onto the couch until he was surprised by the strength he found in himself. He took a breath to give the fire more oxygen inside him and walked over to him, opening the zipper. He didn't want to linger on his clothes or talk, so he just turned Sherlock on his stomach and half-pulled down his pajama pants, an integral part of his home uniform. Sherlock didn't fight back, on the contrary, he reached under the sofa mattress. Little bottle appeared in his hand. "You bastard-" John chuckled at the success of his deduction. "It took you-" Sherlock snorted into the pillow John was pressing against him before his palm covered his mouth. "That's better," John smiled, running his other hand between the exposed buttocks. With the doctor's infallibility, he found a point that made Sherlock shudder and accepted the fact with satisfaction.

But not enough.

He didn't pay much attention to how Sherlock bit his fingers as he drove into him. He bit his lip at the sensation so that he could taste blood. However, he did not stop pushing and with his hand, still slippery with lubricant, gave to Sherlock the same pleasure. They culminated after a few minutes like some teenagers, almost at once. John collapsed beside Sherlock, wiping his blood and saliva, which cluttered his shoulder blade and neck. God knows there was a lot more clutter on that couch now.

"You are such a persistent bastard," he said breathlessly, watching the dust particles they swirled, now hovering in the air above them.

"They say that about me," Sherlock replied, still breathing, and his knuckles crackled as he rose and leaned on his forearm.

"Do you know what else they say?"

" What?"

"Shut up."

"Yes, sir."

John has really missed this since the military.


	12. Scorpio

One morning, Sherlock Holmes woke up and was alone.  
It was no surprise to him. He had fairly decent deductive abilities, and John told him it wouldn't last long. He had no reason to distrust his medical judgment.  
  
And so, that morning, which was shamelessly sunny, and the rest of the world awaited a beautiful May day, he sat on his bed - the one he refused to give up when they moved into this country house. It absolutely did not fit into the rustic environment, but despite convictions, he fell to sentiment. It was the bed he had lost his virginity with John.  
  
" _Although at a relatively late age_ ," someone said excitedly from the door.  
  
"Oh, Jim, you haven't shown up in a long time."  
  
"Well, it's not my fault," Moriarty muttered, examining his fingernails. He was not a day older than the day they had met Sherlock in court. He was wearing the same gray suit, a tie with a fox-shaped clasp.  
  
Sherlock, on the other hand, was very old - and could be happy with his life. Except for this last day, it was worthless if he could judge. He took his walking stick and stood up. He was still taller than Jim, and he was delighted.  
  
"I'm sorry, Jim, I almost forgot about you. You know, a happy life and so on. "  
  
"Happy retirement, you mean," the crazy Irishman grinned.  
  
"Well, it wouldn't be for you."  
  
Jim pursed his lips and looked at the bed, his hands casually in his pockets.  
  
"Strange, he still looks almost the same."  
  
Sherlock followed his gaze. It was true. Death wiped out all the suffering of the last days from John's face. "He was a strange man," he agreed.  
  
"Really? I always thought you were the exceptional one. You were delicious. Too bad we didn't get along."  
  
Sherlock chuckled and shuffled over to the dresser Jim was now leaning on.  
"John was immune to me. Or rather to my venomous nature. That's why he survived and you didn't. "  
He opened the drawer with one hand and the weapon appeared. To these days, it was quite obsolete.  
  
"Oh, you sensitive old man."  
  
Sherlock smiled. "He started calling it _Cab Driver's Doom_. He had a weakness for junk stories. "  
  
Jim smiled. There was no sign of the madness in his eyes.  
  
Sherlock closed the drawer and walked slowly back to the bed. He lay down, grabbed John's cooling palm with one hand and put the gun barrel under his chin with the other. "Goodbye, Jim."  
  
Jim walked casually to the foot of the bed. Somewhere in the background, _Stayin 'Alive_ was playing.  
  
"Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes."

**Author's Note:**

> Did you like this one? Let me know, which sign-story do you think is the best :)


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